We make our way down the hallway carrying a variety of items in our hands, around our arms, pushing it with our feet. In one instance we’re divided by a full mattress as I lead the way down the long corridor. I look back at him, smiling, only to find a slight frown on his face. In an attempt to change this, I ask him: “Why so grumpy? Do you want to sing a work song?”

I’m excited.

I’m happy.

I feel a song would be appropriate.

 I start singing the theme song to the Smurfs (“la la la la la”) which I find fitting since we’re clearly working like the little blue communists. But I only sing one verse. The cheerful “la la” sounds inappropriate if not joined in by other la la’s.

Before I shun him for not joining in, he starts singing:

“Ehhhhh oh, day-o… daylight come and we wanna go hommmme”

I join him, and as I sing the last word of the song, I drag out the mmmm so I find myself humming as we enter our new place.

And just like that,

I’m home.